An Authorized Biography
by scrub456
Summary: An account of what really happened that night at Angelo's. It's possible maybe the biographers got it wrong. A rather ridiculous (and hopefully humorous) reimagining of one of fandom's favorite scenes. Please don't hate me. #PromptFill


***PROMPT FILL NOTES***

This is the first in my prompt fill series.

Tamuril2 (FF and DA user) prompted: Do a story of Angelo defending Sherlock from that awful word 'freak'. Bonus if it's NOT Sally or Anderson that says it. Why? Cause they're always the ones and I want a little variety. Same goes for John defending Sherlock. Been there, done that. I want Angelo to do it this time round.

WRose (FF user) also prompted: A Sherlock story where the characters are watching the BBC Sherlock series.

I don't know why I thought these two went together, but I did, and I really like how it turned out. I hope you do too.

(For help with lines directly from the show, I referenced arianedevere's lovely transcript of the show over on LiveJournal.)

* * *

" _Think,_ John! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" Sherlock gestured broadly to the street and neighborhood around them. He spun away from John and had to immediately sidestep to the right to avoid colliding with the couple snogging loudly in the middle of the pavement.

"I... Dunno. Who?" John stepped to the left of the frankly indecent couple and stumbled on a cracked and uneven spot in the sidewalk. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the storefront window at his side. Illuminated by the neon blue and red open sign, he looked positively grey and washed out.

God. He was exhausted. Yet he'd never felt more alive.

With a shrug, Sherlock stopped short and John, in his distraction, bumped directly into him. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and cleared his throat. "Right. Not the faintest. Hungry?" Without waiting for John to respond, Sherlock flung the glass door open and was greeted with the tinny clank of a bell hanging overhead. He headed directly for the large window. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"This is..." John turned in a full circle, taking in his surroundings. He turned back to Sherlock, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You asked if I was hungry."

"That I did." Sherlock glanced around quickly, clearly looking for someone. "If he offers, ask for the toasted cheese."

"Sherlock. This is _not_ a restaurant. It's very clearly a pawn shop." John paused next to a wall mounted rack of guitars, all in varying degrees of use and abuse.

Very intently studying shelves lined with used toasters and radios, Sherlock glanced frequently out the window. "This is most definitely _not_ a pawn shop. Angelo is a high-end asset broker."

"High-end... Asset..." John started to repeat slowly with a slight frown.

"Broker. Exactly." Sherlock nodded, though he never made eye contact with John. "I'm also convinced the shop proper is a cover for... Well, you needn't be concerned with that. Go, have a look around." Sherlock waved John off as he glanced out the window again. "But keep a look out." He indicated to the address across the street with a tilt of his head.

John shook his head and eyed the tacky teal Stratocaster hanging just above his shoulder. " _Is_ a pawn shop," he mumbled to himself as he ran a finger over the glossy finish on an acoustic Gibson.

"Hmm?" Sherlock glanced at John and then quickly back out the window.

"Ah, uhm... He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad." John looked pointedly at the address across the street.

"He _has_ killed four people." Sherlock flapped his hand noncommittally in John's direction and picked up an industrial looking blender. He hummed as he inspected the blades. John thought he heard Sherlock muttering something about fingers.

Shaking his head, John turned his attention to the gorgeous, cherry red stained Les Paul. He reverently, and so lightly, plucked one string. A gruff hand, decked out in multiple gaudy gold rings, grabbed John's wrist and twisted his arm behind his back.

"No playing the instruments. You have any idea what that beauty is worth?" Clearly a threat, John swallowed hard.

"I... So-sorry." John stammered.

"Oh do calm down, Angelo. He's with me." Sherlock didn't look up from the blender.

"Sherlock!" Angelo released John's arm and shouldered his way past to Sherlock. He stuck his hand out and they shook heartily.

"John, this is Angelo."

"Ah... The high-end asset broker. Nice to uhm..." John stuck his hand out to Angelo.

"This man got me off a murder charge. I'll shake his hand any day." Angelo looked John up and down warily. "You I don't know." John dropped his hand to his side and clenched it into a fist.

"Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking." Sherlock shrugged, interest flagging, and turned his attention back to the blender.

"House breaking? Is this stuff..." John glanced nervously around the shop. "Are these things _stolen_?" Sherlock snapped his head up at John, eyes piercing, lips pursed.

Angelo simply guffawed in response. "Sherlock, where do you find these idiots?" He shook his head and chuckled. Gesturing to Sherlock with a jerk of his thumb, Angelo looked at John. "He cleared my name."

"I cleared it a bit." Fixing a warning look on John, Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to look out the window. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nah." Angelo took a few steps closer to John. "If it weren't for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison." Sherlock turned to face Angelo. "Can I get this delivered?" He held up the blender. "And those two four slice toasters?"

"For you? Anything. _Billy!_ " Angelo shouted toward the back of the shop. A rough, angry looking teenager sauntered out to the shop.

With a snarl Billy snatched a kitchen knife from a display. "Hell no. Not him. Get that _freak_ outta here."

"Watch yourself, Billy." Angelo growled. "You'll not disrespect my friend."

Billy barked a bitter laugh. "Of course you would be friends with this... Psycho." His words dripped with venom. He turned on Angelo. "You want me to stick around, old man, you'll toss this freak out on his arse." Sherlock looked on, bemused, a detached smirk on his face.

John bristled, watching the young man's erratic approach. The diagnostician in him running through a list of possible substances that could be causing his behavior. He noticed that the young man moved with a slight limp and took a small step nearer Billy's most obvious path of approach.

Brandishing the knife Billy shouted at Sherlock, "I heard all about you, collecting body parts. Showing up at murder scenes. Really get off on it, don't you? Freak. You enjoy other people's suffering?"

"Victim or family?" Sherlock asked, his tone conveying his disinterest.

" _What?_ " Billy shouted.

"Were you a victim or a family member?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. When Billy hesitated, Sherlock shook his head and turned to glance out the window.

"You don't turn your back!" Billy lunged forward. Moving as discreetly as possible, John stuck his cane directly in his path, causing Billy to stumble and drop the knife. Kicking the cane away, Billy turned to face John. "You a freak too? Or just a useless cripple? Maybe you're the psycho's boyfriend? I bet that's it, yeah? You two get off on the blood and body parts together?" He dove after John.

John planted his feet and shifted his stance slightly, ready to defend himself. Sherlock watched with interest. A fleeting thought that he should step in on John's behalf crossed his mind, but he was far more interested in the prospect of witnessing John's hand-to-hand combat ability.

He never got the opportunity.

A hollow thwack rang out, and Billy dropped to his knees stunned. Angelo stood over him wielding John's cane like a club. "I warned you, kid." He swung the cane again and Billy collapsed, unconscious and most definitely concussed.

"Bloody hell," John panted, stance rigid, fists still reflexively clenched. He looked from Billy to Sherlock. "You know him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't think so."

"Hey Joe! Nathaniel, get out here!" Angelo shouted. "Now!" The two men rushed out, but stopped short when they spotted Billy. "Joe, take this garbage out back. I'll be there momentarily. Nathaniel, you take this blender and... Those two toasters... And you deliver them to the address Mr. Holmes will give you." Joe and Nathaniel shared a glance, but went about their tasks silently.

As Sherlock scribbled his address out on a note pad, Angelo stepped directly up to John. "I saw what you did. What you were ready to do." He stuck his hand out to John. "That's all I needed to know."

John hesitated only a moment, and then shook Angelo's hand. "Ah... Thanks. And thank you for..."

"Don't mention it." Angelo held John's cane up. It was dented and bent beyond use. "Sorry 'bout that. Look, you're a friend. You take one of those canes over there, any one of them, free of charge. Or, if you'd rather, anything on the top shelf of that glass case over there, yeah? You're a friend of Sherlock, you're a friend of Angelo. It's on the house."

Rubbing the back of his neck John nodded. "Uhm, yeah, okay. Thanks." John winced as Angelo squeezed his left shoulder. He looked up to see Sherlock watching the exchange with rapt attention.

"Angelo, I think John might enjoy one of your toasted cheese."

"One famous toasted cheese coming right up! Sherlock, you want anything?" Angelo strode toward the back of the shop. "Who am I kidding, of course you don't." He laughed at his own joke as he disappeared into the back.

"So." John tucked his chin to his chest and exhaled slowly. "You do know most people don't _actually_ have arch-enemies." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in response. "And here, I've met two of yours in one day."

Sherlock chuckled. "How dull for _most_ people."

"And you're friends with criminals?"

"Angelo's acquaintance has proven infinitely useful."

"Let me guess, your girlfriend's an assassin for hire?" John smiled and winked. He turned away to inspect the wares displayed in the glass case.

"Ah...ha. No. No girlfriend. Not really my area." Sherlock turned his attention back to twenty-two Northumberland Street.

"Boyfriend then? Some big scary bloke?" John chuckled.

"No... No boyfriend." Sherlock cleared his throat. "John, I think you should know, I consider myself married to my work. And, I... Uhm..."

John laughed and slapped his hand down on the glass top of the case. "Oh God. These watches... They're all Rollexes. With two _l_ 's. And this one has two sevens." He turned around to find Sherlock staring at him. "Oh, damn. Sorry. What were you saying? Married to your work, yeah? Do people actually say that?"

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "I... I'm sure I don't know what other _people_ do."

They were interrupted when Joe returned. "Angelo's busy. Said to give you this." He shoved a sandwich into John's hands and retreated quickly.

"I thought you said Angelo's toasted cheese was famous?" John frowned.

"No, _Angelo_ said his toasted cheese was famous." Sherlock chuckled. "When in reality, his toasted cheese is just two pieces of toast. Trust me, it's the best option." He smiled a tiny lopsided smile at John.

"Oh... Look." John pointed out the window. "A taxi just pulled up."

"What?" Sherlock spun around. He steepled his fingers under his chin and rocked up onto the balls of his feet. "Why isn't anyone getting in or out? Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? _Why_ is it clever?" He pressed his hands to either side of his head.

"Is that him?" Sherlock started when John spoke from directly beside him.

"Don't stare!" Sherlock hissed.

John looked away awkwardly. "You're staring."

"We can't _both_... He's moving!" Sherlock dashed out the door without another word.

"Sher... Oh, bloody..." John followed him out of the shop at full speed.

* * *

-Several Years Later-

Struggling to bring his sleep heavy eyes into focus, John stumbled down the stairs from his room. "Sherlock, you okay? I heard you shouting..." He glanced around the sitting room. It was completely dark with the exception of the blue glow cast by the telly and the small fire burning in the fireplace. Sherlock sat slumped in his chair, grumbling.

"Oh God. Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Just..." John shook his head in distaste and tried to grab the remote. Sherlock snatched it first and gripped it with both hands next to his chest. "Please, just shut it off."

"I'm going to kill Mycroft. He had no right to, you know... Sell the rights." Sherlock growled.

"Sherlock, it's done. There's nothing we can do about it. I'm not happy about it either, but, well... We'll... We've definitely survived worse."

"You." As if just realizing John's presence, Sherlock turned on his flatmate. "One could also place the blame for this on your ridiculous blog. With your ridiculously inaccurate retelling of my cases, and the absolutely _ridiculous_ way you romanticize our lives."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "Right, mister _genius needs an audience._ " He sat down in his chair and propped his elbows on his knees.

"It's all just so... Inaccurate. And frankly, insulting. And it's going to be aired on television. And sold on multiple media formats. And... There will be merchandise." Sherlock tossed John the remote. He promptly shut the telly off, the warm glow of the fire the only source of light.

"At least we got to see it first, yeah? We can be prepared for the fallout."

"But it's being marketed as an authorized biography, and it's almost completely fabrication. They exploited your PTSD from the outset. And the mockery they make of the mind palace, with the glowing words, and numbers, and street maps." Sherlock huffed in frustration. "And what of that odd fellow who is supposed to be playing me? Just... Look at him. Our lives our ruined."

"Oh, well, I'm so sorry that there is a miniseries about _you,_ which is obvious from the title. _Sherlock._ How dreadful for you." John tsk'd mockingly. "Three ninety minute long advertisements, bringing attention to your chosen career, to be aired worldwide. And we didn't have to pay for it. They're paying us!"

"A miniseries with potential for sequels, John. _Sequels._ Multiple," Sherlock whined and covered his face with his hands.

"I think I read somewhere these blokes who are playing us are quite busy." John shrugged. "Perhaps we'll get lucky and they'll only be available every decade or so to make more... Or maybe they'll lose interest, yeah? Or it'll be a spectacular failure. Because who really wants to watch the two of us bickering? We're idiots."

" _You're_ an idiot, John. I'm amazing, if you are to be believed."

John huffed a laugh. "You're hilarious." He stood and stretched. "You want tea?"

"Please." Sherlock took the remote back from John and turned the telly back on. The scene playing out on the screen was of not-Sherlock and not-John sitting in a romantic Italian restaurant, supposedly on a stakeout. "Ugh. Why, John? It's not bad enough that they cast utterly ridiculous actors to play us..."

"I don't know. I think that bloke playing me is rather fetching, and quite true to real life." John grinned deviously, and ducked the cushion Sherlock threw at his head.

" _As I was saying,_ the casting? Atrocious. They've dumbed down the actual science. Belittled your importance significantly." They shared a fleeting glance. John was thankful the darkened room hid the embarrassment that flushed his face. Sherlock looked quickly back to the screen. "And here, this scene at Angelo's. What the hell have they turned it into? Are we supposed to be flirting? What are they implying?"

"You know very well what they're implying. It's the same thing everyone has been implying since day one." John chuckled. "I can tell you one thing. Once this airs, there will be a lot of very disappointed people."

"Why, because we're _not_ actually a couple? John, that really seems like more of an annoyance for us." Sherlock glared at the telly.

"No, they'll be disappointed because they'll want to have dinner at the place we supposedly had our first... _whatever_ that is... And the closest they'll come is a pawn shop with cheese-less toasted cheese sandwiches." John grinned at Sherlock and then stepped into the kitchen to start the kettle.

Sherlock snorted. "How many times must I remind you? Angelo does not run a pawn shop. He is a high-end asset broker."

John laughed outright. "Still a lousy place to take a date."


End file.
